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Thoughts for Thinkers 

PROSE AND VERSE 



B y 
JOHN T. OYLER 



KANSAS CITY 
THE HUDSON PRESS 



1 O 1 -i 



75 3^^1 



Copyright 1914 

By 
John T. Oyler. 



MAY -4 1914 



'©CI.A371684 



INTRODUCTION. 

If association and long acquaintance reveal the 
motives of men, surely such intimacy ought to warrant 
the writer's knowing som.ething about the author of this 
booklet. Like all other men, his imperfections o'ershadow 
many good intentions— and it was not until after he had 
reached the shady side of a score of other ""successful 
failures" that he realized the necessity of boring busy 
readers with a little pathos of the past ; although it is 
well known that the book- world is brim-full of literary 
dross, and that newspapers and magazines pay so liber- 
ally for "'fillers" suiting the whims of managing editors. 
However, as the author would say : "You carj't always 
tell what's in a sandwich by looking at the outside" — so 
he has taken a peep at "'the life within" — nnding little 
mustard and less meat than was suspected, when the 
glories of a split bun first met his unsophisticated gaze. 

About the only steady job the author ever had was 
that of looking for something to eat and a place to stay; 
while he has always worked overtime, calling on prospec- 
tive employers, nnd answering fake advertisements that 
even so much as intimated the prospect of a good position. 

In conclusion, it might be well to state, that the au- 
thor was educated on the installment plan — has sup- 
ported himself upon a "weakly" stipend for many years; 
has paid more money to railroads and less to charity than 
any other sandwich fiend. 

The word pictures set for^ki in/Thoughts for Think- 
ers," are a worthy contribution to current literature, and 
ought to give the author a creditable rank, if not a place 
among the better class writers of today. 

H. B. Pels. 



FOREWORD. 

The lure of the pen beckoned, and the art of writing 
greeted me as a recreation — poetry, as a pleasing pastime. 

The author of this booklet has long since passed 
the milestone that marks the highest noon upon the dial 
of life; the better part of which was spent in the print- 
shop, trying to add a little more color to the "art pre- 
servative," and occasionally getting "canned" himself. 
It is obvious, therefore, that he is not "rushing into 
print" by publishing "Thoughts for Thinkers," — most 
of the manuscript used herein was written several years 
ago. 

The reader's attention is especially directed to such 
poems as "Smiles of Yesterday," "Waiting for You," 
"Sunrise and Sunset," "Reminiscence," and others por- 
traying the pathos of early life as reflected in the mir- 
ror of age; while such poems as "Resurrection," "Chil- 
dren," "Ode to Death," etc., together with some of 
the prose sayings, represent that period of life which 
might be designated as the first half of the second score, 
better known as the age between twenty and thirty, 
when most fellows are leaning heavily against the ex- 
clamation points of life, and scattering interrogations at 
every turn of the road. 

While there is seemingly little wit and probably less 
humor than should be found in booklets of this nature, 
the author has used brevity — and the reader is requested 
to drop a smile between the lines to supply the humor 
that is needed. After reading the book, it would be well 
to renew a looking-glass acquaintance with yourself — 
smile, and then — smile again. 



Kansas City, Missouri, 
April, 1914. 



John T. Oyler. 



11 



CONTENTS. 

. ... Page 
Anticipation 95 

An Heritage 105 

Authority g5 

Autumn 67 

Break Away 45 

Children 41 

Disappointment 3I 

Disposition 29 

Environment 71 

Evolution 109 

Foreword 1 1 

Inside the Walls 37 

Introduction 9 

Introspection of Life 53 

Life's Insecurity 87 

Man 111^ 112 

Mirages 49 

Mother 59 

My Better-Self and 1 21 

Mystic Nomad 81 

Observation II9 

Ode to Death 55 

Opportunity 23 

Phosde 65 

Poetry II5 

Ragweed and Rose 61 

Real and Ideal 57 

Recollections 43 

13 



CONTENTS. 

Reminiscence 35 

Resignation 97 

Resurrection 107 

Retrospection 73 

Right and Wrong 103 

Rosebeds of Memory 19 

Roses or Tears 117 

Smiles of Yesterday 25 

Springtime 99 

Sunrise and Sunset 89 

Sunny Fields 77 

The Beautiful and True 63 

The Blue and Gray 47 

The Dream of Gold 39 

The Then and Now 27 

The Life Within 17 

The New Year 93 

The Power of Money 51 

The Unwelcome Guest 75 

Thoughts of You 101 

To a Human Skull 79 

To Labor 113 

To Martyrdom 91 

To Mothers 83 

Unsatisfied 69 

Waiting for You 33 

14 



Thoughts for Thinners 



THE LIFE WITHIN. 

In a world so wide, and the air so free. 

There is always a place for you and me ; 

Yet cramped and crowded it has sometimes been 

In workshops that kept us, the walls within. 

The spring bursts forth, and a small winding rill 
Broadens into a river, down the hill ; 
Yet hampered and crowded it must have been. 
Else it ne'er would flow from the source within. 

Nature drops the acorn so carelessly. 

Only one of many becomes a tree; 

While gnarled and crooked some of them have been 

That grew up and out from the life within. 

The child is born into a strange old world, 
A soul to be saved through a life unfurled; 
Yet scourged and crucified it will have been. 
Ere the spirit departs from ways of sin. 



17 



ROSEBEDS OF MEMORY. 

Among the rosebeds of memory there is always one 
rose larger, brighter, and more beautiful than all the rest. 
From the playmates of childhood there are some who 
ever remain the peers of our fancy. And so with the 
ways of after-life; our compeers may become our peers 
and remain respected; but the distant, unapproachable 
genius appears to our bedimmed vision as occupying a 
superior position in the environment of life's arboreal 
garden. Yet he grew out and away from the big crowd 
so rapidly that we had to help hold him up. to keep 
him from seemingly falling upon us. 



19 



MY BETTER -SELF AND I. 

We are growing old together. 

My dear better-self and I ; 
We have braved the roughest weather 

'Neath life's smirchy azure sky. 

We have roughed it, we have borne it, 

All the troubles men decry; 
We are worsted by the battle 

And must sometime say : " Good-bye. 

There shall be no sounding trumpet 

Of divorce proceedings nigh. 
When we lay us down together — 

When we quit ourselves and die. 

Ere the dawn shall seek the morning 

Of a future, by and by. 
We 'II be planted in the lonesome — 

My dear better-self and I. 

As to what men call successful. 

Not a failure we deny — 
Measured by the length of living. 

We were short on custard pie. 



21 



OPPORTUNITY. 

Not a single opportunity ever presented itself to 
me, in all my wanderings from place to place, in search 
of a decent livelihood and suitable environment, that 
could not have been found within an hour's walk from 
the home of my boyhood days — yet it cost years of 
wasted energy to find it out. 



23 



SMILES OF YESTERDAY. 

Where are the smiles of yesterday ? 

A youthful blush, no longer thine — 
The laughing eyes, in bright array. 

Through which were viewed all things 
sublime. 

Vanished, alas ! They all have gone. 
And left the pallid cheek of age; 

Serenely now, they still march on. 
Leaving the old, austere and sage. 

Lingering around, their beauties here. 
Like golden sunsets to the last. 

Retouch life's iridescent sphere 
With rainbow blushes of the past. 



25 



THE THEN AND NOW. 

A WONDERFUL sight the eye may behold. 
As backward we glance o'er the fields of old, 
And see the shadow of their season's gold 
Turn into dross, as their shapes we remold. 

A beautiful thought, that the world is wide, 

And somewhere, always, there 's a place to hide 

Away from the scenes of the haunts that tried 

To kill all the joys of a life beside. 
* * * 

The wonderful things of the long ago 
Are as marvelous now as were they then — 
The dawn of the morning, the sunset's glow. 
The starry heavens, the field and the fen. 

Colors that blend with the reddening rose. 
The grass that grows out from under the clod ; 
The joys of life, and their attendant woes; 
The soul of man that has gone to its God. 



27 



DISPOSITION. 

The most beautiful person is not always the one 
fairest to look upon; for pleasing faces are not, as a 
rule, indications of all the essential qualities embodied 
in the esthetical. 

Character is essentially the basis of a career of use- 
fulness; like beauty, it is an innate attribute of life, 
depending upon environment for its reputation and sta- 
bility. One may possess beauty, character, reputation — 
together with their attendant surroundings — and still be 
homely and ill-disposed; but a good disposition is the 
essence of all that tends to brighten the way — an inward 
loveliness, growing more beautiful by acquaintance and 
association. 



29 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 

To have labored hard — conscientiously and willing- 
ly — to secure desired results, then see them wither and 
fall, like the blossom of a flower, is, in all probability, 
the direst disappointment that can befall the ambitions 
of men. Yet who of us have not labored in vain — only 
to see the ripened prospects of all our labors wrenched 
from our grasp, just at the time of intended fruition. 



31 



WAITING FOR YOU. 

Would you were waiting for me, dear heart, 
Adown the lanes of the long ago — 

Away from the din of street and mart. 
Far from the lure of the lime-lights' glow. 

Would we were strolling there 'midst the scene 
Of old-time woodlands, with perfumed air. 

Beneath azure skies, unchanged, serene — 
A token of life's unspoken prayer. 

The lusts of life and the lure of gold, 
A search for fame at the rainbow's end. 

Have lost us all we would gladly hold : 
The tendered hand of a faithful friend. 

What of it all ? This seeming success ! 

Win or lose, we are never content — 
The dreams of youth will forever dress 

Old age with scars of a life misspent. 

The hells of earth, with their roundelay. 
Have kept us apart, our whole life through. 

Long have you watched and waited — I say. 
Dear heart, now I am waiting for you ! 



33 



REMINISCENCE. 

Oh for a breath of the new-mown hay 

That scented the meadows of childhood ! 
Nothing but pleasure was ours all day. 

Romping throughout the dear old wildwood. 
And for a stroll o'er the meadow-land. 

To chase the shadows that fade and grow. 
Or stop awhile and trace in the sand 

Pictures and names of the folks we know. 

Just a look at the tinted sunset 

That painted a southern summer's sky ; 

Haunts lie hidden in memory yet 

When fancy recalls old times gone by. 

On life's mysterious wings we soar 
To a spot where the lilies grow wild — 

There shall we see old faces once more. 

Where we used to live when but a child. 
* * * 

Would we could live them over again — 
Old-fashioned, innocent, childhood days; 

And live the now as we lived it then — 
The simpler life and the better ways. 



35 



INSIDE THE WALLS. 

Up against four walls is not an uncommon condition 
in this age, and most of us are in position to realize what 
it means ; especially when the indoor worker spends most 
of his time inside the walls of store, factory, mine, or 
workshop. Think of the thousands who do not know 
what it is to enjoy a season of outdoor sunshine and 
shower. 

Despite the fact that the grassless door-yards of 
great cities do not enhance the better welfare of the young 
and rising generation, the city walls stand out in bold 
enchantment, enticing the unwary into phantom places 
of work and worry; where, when once engaged inside 
the walls, the worker must almost forget that the flowers 
of field and fenland were made for him. 



37 



THE DREAM OF GOLD. 

The world is up against itself. 
With sordid struggles after wealth. 

Smirching the race with want and shame. 

And shares with it no part of blame. 
The dream of gold and wanton pelf. 
Land-grabbing, grinding greed, and stealth. 

Sweep from its orbit the self-same. 

Yellowish drosses of its fame ! 



3d 



CHILDREN. 

EcHOLESS silence of a dreamy past. 

With sacred sweetness and ciierished sadness ! 
Memory recalls some beauties that last 

Through years of sorrow, life's joy and gladness. 
Can we e'er forget the childish desires 

For tendered love that was never secured? 
Will its departed joys in gay attires 

Ever come back to the hearts that it lured ? 

H: ^ ^ 

I would rather have the love of a child — 

The rose-tinted cheek and the dimpled hand, 
A loving embrace as it sweetly smiled — 

Than all this world with its great and its grand. 
For love, to me, is a youthful goodness — 

I never have dreamed of it otherwise; 
Nor can I forget its aged sadness. 

As I gaze upon it with human eyes. 

The child, to me, is innocent glory 

Of life in simple, grandest purity; 
Reminds me of the beautiful story 

Of Him who died upon Calvary's tree ; 
And were there no children for me to love. 

To live would not mean what it signifies; 

Nor could I enjoy that Heaven above. 

The place we are wont to call Paradise. 
* * * 

Heaven, to me, would be but a hell. 

And its joys a sorrow undefined. 
Were there no children breaking the spell 

Of disappointments in humankind. 
There is no Heaven, nor gold-paved street. 

With angelic hosts and jeweled throne. 
That lures me away from hearts which beat 

As one for all in old freedom's home ! 



41 



RECOLLECTIONS. 

The dearest thoughts of earth are the reminiscences 
of earliest recollection. Although many years have inter- 
vened, it now seems but a dream since first I used to 
play down by the stream running through the woodland 
of an old farm-home; when I took my father's hand 
and was led to the orchard, all scented with springtime 
perfume — long before our confidence was shaken by our 
fellows; when to be cheerful was appreciated by our 
playmates, and to be honest the abiding secret of restful 
repose; when out highest ambition was to do good, and 
the deepest regret that yesterday's experiences were only 
present in pleasant memories. 



43 



BREAK AWAY. 

Who shall be first, in the world's greatest need. 
To break away from extraction and creed ? 
Who shall be next in the procession's lead 
To steal away from its graft and its greed ? 

Who shall it be that will lead us away 
Into the path, lest we stray — lest we stray 
From tasks and duties assigned us to-day, 
Leaving but barren, remorseful decay? 

Who shall, unflinchingly, help us at last. 
When present sorrows and sins of the past 
Shall well up again, in wanton attire. 
And lure us away from truth and desire? 

Whom shall we meet on the way — on the way 
From earth's darkest past to the brighter day. 
When life's deeds are balancing in the sway 
Of eternity's triumphant array? 



46 



THE BLUE AND GRAY. 

The grass grows green on hills serene. 
Where ranks of dead are sleeping ; 

We hear no more the cannon's roar. 

Where guards their watch were keeping. 

The armless sleeve, the sightless eye, 

A strife for self did sever ; 
Voices are stilled, yet echoes cry : 

"The Stars and Stripes forever!" 

Their hopes and fears, their prayers and tears 

And burdened griefs together 
Lie buried in the Blue and Gray, 

Forever and forever! 



47 



MIRAGES. 

What is honor, what is fame — 
Or the record of a name 

On pages of history ? 
Alas ! these are not a peer 
To happiness of the Here 
Gone forever, unheeded — 
Exchanged for things not needed- 
With human lives enfolded. 
And sacred pleasures moulded 

Into myth and mystery! 



49 



THE POWER OF MONEY. 

I NEVER hold a dollar in my hand, and gaze upon 
its deceptive outlines, but what I think of the disaster, 
the destruction and devastation its power has brought 
into the world ; of the wrongs, gross outrages and crimes 
it has committed; of the palaces it has builded, and the 
hovels it has deserted; of the few it has fed, and the 
multitudes it has starved; of the coffers it has filled; 
of the blood it has spilled; of the millions it has killed. 
Every dollar that comes into our possession is but the 
representative collection of so much existence; every 
cent of which is but typical of so much vitality of some 
laborer, who in the sweat of his face exchanged life for 
its possession. 



51 



INTROSPECTION OF LIFE. 

What is life? 
Its troubles come when least expected: 
We must accept the oft rejected. 
And rue at last the once neglected. 
We look in vain across the plain 
That lies behind the finite mind. 
And see no way as yet untrodden. 
Nor seek the pathway, unforbidden. 

The view is clear, yet oft we hear 
The voice of Nature, softly sighing. 
And out along life's highway lying 

Are seen the wrecks upon its mere. 
Such is life ! 



53 



ODE TO DEATH. 

If adown life's rugged journey 
Death should meet us on the way. 
Grasp it by the hand and say : 
"Welcome — I have lived my day! 

Deal gently with us. Magic Hand ; 
Lead us into the unseen land 
Of rest, away from trouble — and 
Leave us to ourselves, forever ! 



55 



REAL AND IDEAL. 

Ideal and real cause much discomfort, and leave 
their wake strewn with nothing, save the debris of air- 
castles and the remains of broken idols. 

The essence of the ideal is the real, both of which 
are lured by the idol of every age. To-day, the ideal 
beckons the wayfarer into the highway leading to the 
kingdom of air-castles; to-morrow it leaves him face to 
face with all the broken idols of the past. No wonder 
the pathos of life is cradled with the ideal; for just as 
the hand reaches out to grasp the cherished hopes of 
past ambition, their realizations fade before the flower's 
fruition. 



57 



MOTHER. 

Last night I dreamed 

Of seeing dear old Mother's face; 
Slowly it seemed 

To merge from out a darkened place 
Into the light, the countenance 

Radiant with an old-time smile, — 
A glance at the glowing semblance 

Of all that makes life worth the while. 



59 



RAGWEED AND ROSE. 

I LOVE the ragweed and the rose. 
And places where the thistle grows; 

I like the bleak and barren hills. 

Just as well as the tiny rills 
That flow through the wooded lowlands. 

We need them all to make the whole. 
That man on evolution's scroll 

May see the beauty of splendors 

That the universe engenders 
With diamonds, amongst rocks and sands. 



CI 



THE BEAUTIFUL AND TRUE. 

The child, at all times, should have placed before it 
the beautiful and the true. How much better our lives 
might have been, had these principles been a corner-stone 
of childhood days ! 

In the home, should fortune favor such a priceless 
possession, busts of great men and noble women ought 
always to adorn its hallways, and its walls support favored 
selections of art. Books of wisdom and instruments of 
music ought to occupy a conspicuous place. * * * 
Fragrant flowers of springtime, the brown heath of au- 
tumn, or the whitened scenes of winter would then 
gladden alike the lanes and byroads of life's rugged 
pathway. 



63 



PHOSDE. 

Titles of earth — a bit of fame — 
May be an honored name 

Among men; 
Yet who of us would dare expose 
The evil deeds of those, 

Now and then. 
Who appear in pathways of strife 
As leaders, their own life 

Unrefined ? 

Little of life — a breath of air — 
A few years — and somewhere 

We are gone; 
Yet pure thoughts, kind acts, and good deeds 
Remain as the sown seeds 

That grow on 
And on, blossoming as flowers; 
These shall perfume the hours 

Left behind. 



65 



AUTUMN. 

The tinted leaf, the garnered sheaf. 
When swallows to the southland go. 
Remind us that the time will come 
For changes in the season's run — 
The brown heath and the winter's snow. 



67 



UNSATISFIED. 

If health, wealth, success, and happiness, surrounded 
by an ideal home environment, could have been my por- 
tion of life's long, busy career; if every desire of the 
human heart could have been gratified; if to this be 
added the sum total of all expectant joys and restful re- 
pose amid the angelic hosts of Heaven, after death; if 
all these were mine, and the lever of the Universe were 
placed in my hand, and I were made Supreme Ruler of 
worlds and Creator of all creations, — I could not be 
satisfied ! 



69 



ENVIRONMENT. 

To have been born under proper parental condi- 
tions, with no traits of hereditary evil, and surrounded 
by healthful home environment, is a blessing conducive 
to more happiness and a greater good than any change 
in later life that perchance may be brought to innocent 
or wanton ignorance through any form of salvation in 
Christendom, or civic law of democracy. 



11 



RETROSPECTION. 

O SUN-KISSED flower 
Of childhood's hour — 
Breath from the breeze 
That blows no more — 
Thy day is done. 
Thy perfume gone. 
All scattered o'er 
Life's storm-swept seas! 



73 



THE UNWELCOME GUEST. 

Where are they that have not been in places. 

Witnessing the crowded, gala parade. 
Gazing into flushed and anxious faces. 

The moving pictures of the promenade; 
And also not have felt somewhat lonesome? 
Who is he that has not, too, felt the sting 

So well known to the uninvited guest. 
Sitting with and maybe inside the ring. 

Yet apparently away from the rest; 
Seemingly treated well, but not welcome? 

Have we not looked into a stolid past. 

And verified the truth of which we speak ? 
Did we not fare with him who must at last 

Feel a world's selfish hand upon the cheek. 
And see its cold shoulder turned against us? 
Little care some people for the stranger. 

Standing within or outside their own gate; 
They, like the greedy dog of the manger. 

Neither eat nor let others eat; but wait 
For a time to do wanton injustice ! 



SUNNY FIELDS. 

I NEVER Stroll down the streets of a great city, with 
its whir of wheels and din of commercialism, but what 
my mind's eye can see through the dim, smoky distance 
the sunny fields of childhood; and, seemingly, I breathe 
over again the pure, fresh air of country life. 



77 



TO A HUMAN SKULL. 

The ruined palace of the intellect is before me; no 
sound of sorrow or expression of joy comes from within. 
In it existed all that makes up the sum total of human 
misery and happiness. This is the empty tomb of the 
mind — the awful silence of the absent soul; which, tir- 
ing of its hampered environment, strayed away and, 
halting for a moment, was lost amid the flowerlands 
of eternity. 



79 



MYSTIC NOMAD. 

Out where the lilies are growing wild. 
Out where birds are singing and swaying. 

Nature speaks to the innocent child. 
Could it understand what she 's saying. 

In the distance of a great beyond. 
Behind galaxies of constellation. 

Thought forever goes wandering on. 
The mystic nomad of creation. 



81 



TO MOTHERS. 

I 'VE wondered, as I saw a mother's hand 
Holding the form of a lovely child and 

Leaning o'er the cradle of hopes and prayers. 
Who cared for mother, as through tears she smiled 

Away life's sorrow with its burdened cares; 
Doing the greatest life-work : rearing the child. 

Wondered, looking into a sad, sweet face. 
If the future offered a resting-place. 
Where she and the innocent child at breast 
Would meet again in a haven of rest ; 
And there, 'midst all the luring joys serene. 
Live, a smiling presence of the Nazarene ! 



83 



AUTHORITY. 

Authority is the mist through which the trained 
eye may get a glimpse at the dignity of office. 



85 



LIFE'S INSECURITY. 

Like the spider that fastens one end of its web to 
a rock and the other to a blade of grass, the insecurity 
and uncertainty of life is, has ever been, and will ever be 
fast at one end and loose at the other. 



SUNRISE AND SUNSET. 

Don't you remember, woodland elves, 
How once we used to hie ourselves 
Out of the forest, on the run. 
To see the rising of the sun? 

Those were the days when we were boys- 
When life was overrun with joys; 
And ev'ry turn, a jeweled flower 
Perfumed the way of childhood's hour. 

Then we were looking up, and on — 

Far as the stretch of coming dawn 

That ev'ry morn and all the way 

Returned to lure us through each day 
* * * 

Out of sunshine — down from the hill — 
Into the forest's leafy chill; 
From whence, no more, upon the run. 
We seek to see the morning sun. 

For we are turning back once more — 
Bearing thoughts of the days of yore — 
With falt'ring footsteps, one by one. 
To view the setting of life's sun. 

But come what will, our joys are there. 
While life remains, everywhere 
Leads to the end. When day is done. 
Sunrise and sunset are as one. 



89 



TO MARTYRDOM. 

Justice is silent ; the nations mourn. 

And the voiceless tongue of martyrdom 

Utters no eulogy to freedom. 

In the sepulcher of monarchy 

Lies the sarcophagus, anarchy, 
Where criminal injustice was born. 

Freedom lies buried — debris of time; 

Standing at the threshold of treason. 

Murder awaits, with flamed reason. 

Around liberty's haunted hearth-stone 

No leniency is ever shown 
To villains whose hands are stained by crime. 

Heroes of time — slaves of martyrdom ! 

No silver-tongued speech or word of pen 

Ever justified the cause of men. 

Untimely death blights all hopes and fears. 

And seems a recompense ; worlds of tears 
Are then shed, all over Christendom ! 



91 



THE NEW YEAR. 

Dashing along at a reckless speed. 

The Father of Time has not grown old ; 

In the strength of youth, his fetters freed, 
A giant is he, stately and bold. 

No gray locks shadow his sunlit face. 
Nor distance mars his limitless view; 

No wasted energies slack his pace 

Of onward march along highways new. 

With stature bronzed by the ages past. 
Unfettered he ever reigns supreme; 

Decrepit age, with shadowless cast. 

Is lost at last in the crook-scythe's theme. 

The Old Year ends with the rifted dawn, 
A New Year enters with bright array 

Of prospects new to brain and to brawn. 
On Time's untrodden, eternal way. 



93 



ANTICIPATION. 

Man, like the rest of the animal world, no matter 
what his supposed superiority, prestige, or knowledge 
may or may not have been, must at last succumb to the 
inevitable fate of all; who, having been spoken into ex- 
istence, must bear the cross of a lifetime until the silent 
whisper of his latest breath dies away in the ears of 
memory, his ashes alone marking the spot in the innate 
matters of earth, over which breezes of perpetual spring- 
time, perchance, may waft a peaceful requiem. As to 
the so-called spiritual part of life, I am of the opinion 
that the mental limitation is never destroyed; though 
the physical be annihilated, the spiritual condition will 
exist in form similar to its former outline, yet unaffected 
by any condition or environment known to the physical 
world. Thus may we hope for all that the human mind 
can picture of a future in a better sphere, where the 
soul perchance may acquaint itself with the Infinite. 



95 



RESIGNATION. 

There are sorrows too deep for tears. 
And dire heart-aches that rend the soul 

Countless troubles always exist 

On storm-swept seas, where billows roll. 

Yet over and against them all. 
Above blatant blarney and strife. 

Securely anchored forever. 

Are the cherished ideals of life. 

Ideals that are sacred visions 

Of all that we have loved and said — 

These are our hopes for the living 

And the myriad millions dead. 
* * * 

Resigned to the fate that awaits us. 
Where life is no longer a mission ; 

When we shall quit the tread-mill chorus 
And will rest in Nature's transition ! 



97 



SPRINGTIME. 

Bird of the southern summer's clime, 
It is springtime in the Northland; 

The queen of year 

Invites thee here — 
Come to the thatch of wind-tossed pine. 

If in thy flight 

The dreary night 
O'ertake thee, rest awhile; the morn 

Will give thee strength; 

The time at length 
Shall come to thee, when thy first-born 

Cheers thee with song. 

While on thy long 
Way, back again to the Southland ! 



99 



THOUGHTS OF YOU. 

To-day my thoughts have been of you — 
You who stole my first affection. 
Leaving but the recollection 

Of a love promised me as true. 

Perchance memory's haunts remind you 
Of misspent days in bygone years. 
That filled a life with cares and tears 

And left it wrecked, with naught to do. 

Betimes in fancy's leisure hours 
I return once more to the place 
Where sweet smiles and a kindly face 

Greet me as of old ; the flowers 

Of youth blossom again, and lure 
Me along life's innocent ways. 
Self-same as were its placid days 

When you and I pledged love secure. 

If face to face in the future 

We should once again chance to meet. 
Would memories of old-time greeting 
Return to us fresh and sweet 
As were those of the days demure? 
Or would such uncomely meeting 
Fill your care-worn heart with regret — 
Or mine — that we had ever met ! 



101 



RIGHT AND WRONG. 

Things will go right and then go wrong; 
I 've watched them, as they move along 
Down the road of a business bore 
That smothers love in hearts of men. 
With all that comes and all that goes. 
It seems that man reaps what he sows 
Along life's pathway^sometimes more — 
To kill his pleasures now and then. 



303 



AN HERITAGE. 

Were I to seek the happy medium between dis- 
content and contentment — I would rather be the humble 
tenant upon an acre of ground, far from the city's noise 
and turmoil, where I could plant a seed and see it grow 
and blossom a flower, than to be made ruler of the 
united kingdoms of earth. 



105 



RESURRECTION. 

Easter Morn ! that hallowed name — 
Not so because of ancient creed. 
Nor for a cherished worldly need 

Of foolish fashion's wanton fame. 

The name suggests a better thought 
Than fancy's dream of petty praise. 
Or society's luring ways 

That come and go and are forgot. 

Easter Morn! hear the chiming bells 

Ringing in the distant churches. 

Their towers are sheltering perches 
For birds, whose gathering foretells 
The coming storm or eventide; 

And so with them that congregate 

In places with the potentate. 
To see (and be seen) ; in this their sins abide. 

Christendom taught the sacred theme 

Of Him who died on Calvary's tree; 

The story told to you and me 
Must yet apply to life's regime. 
Church steeples, towering toward the sky. 

Do not point to the Christ-like life; 

Creeds help but little in the strife 
For nobler things that never die. 

If they who have abundant share 
Of worldly goods could speak to those 

Who have none, and say to them, "Here, 

Take this mite; 'tis not justly mine," 
This world would banish greater woes. 
Pale cheeks blush, as the faded rose. 

Needing only shower and sunshine. 



107 



EVOLUTION. 

Life is and must ever be interminable — a repetition 
of itself in the development of the species; a living over 
again the realizations of yesterday, the aspirations of 
to-day, and the hopes of to-morrow. 



109 



MAN. 

Some years ago, I stood upon the bleak and cheer- 
less street corners of one of America's greatest cities, 
and gazed at its structures of granite, marble, and glass: 
a magnificent display of man's architectural designs; a 
place where rest, recreation, and happiness are unknown 
to humankind. Looking skyward and otherwise. I thought 
of man's daring and wonderful career. I thought of him 
in life's probable transformation, from the molten rock 
into the dust of earth. 1 thought of him when, a mil- 
lion eons later, life became a component part of the 
vegetable v/orld. I thought of him when, a thousand 
centuries afterward, life was assuming a protoplastic con- 
dition and emerging into the lower animal creation. 

Backward two hundred and fifty thousand years 
man's footprints have been traced in the sands of time, as 
he was translated and transformed from barbarism into 
civilization, and ruled the world by the force of his genius, 
through disaster, defeat, and victory; long before the 
power of money made him a slave and vassal. 

Leaving the lands of the foreign oppression, I trace 
him as he sought new fields of fame and fortune in the 
wilderness of America; almost three centuries later, I 
read of him after the battles of the Rebellion, the Rev- 
olutionary and Civil wars — wounded by shot, shell, and 
bayonet ; bleeding, sick, and sore — as he returned home- 
ward, carrying with him the welcome flag of liberty and 
freedom. 

In the light of the twentieth century's morning, I 
behold him again! Only a vestige of his former self and 
powers; destitute of individuality; his calloused hands 
bound by the fettered chains of labor, and his eyes 
blinded by the infernal regime of modern mannerisms. 

In reflection, I thought of the power of money; the 
poverty of man: and, turning upon my well-worn heel, 
1 said to myself: If this be the fated destiny of man- 
kind, 1, for one, would rather have been a tiny bird, 
ignorant of my surroundings and irresponsible for my 

111 



actions, swinging and swaying upon the branches of the 
silvered tree-tops, singing to my mates as the day died 
out in the west and listening to the murmuring waters 
of the rippling brooklet as it dashed down the mountain 
side into the gulf of eternity, than to have been man — 
that imperial personage known as man, with all that he 
is, as he carries the cross and wears the crown. And 
until such a time when all men, by precept and example, 
shall do unto others as they ought to do, I shall write 
no eulogy to man. 



112 



TO LABOR. 

I 'vE wondered what the thoughts of men have been. 
While wandering on through a world of sin ; 
With wanton sorrows deep, by trials distressed ; 
Unrecognized, unhonored; shorn of rest. 
Wondered, while passing them on life's highway, 

As to and from their task of toil they come. 
Struggling along, existing day by day 

Upon the pittance of a paltry sum. 

Again, it occurs to me o'er and o'er. 

As I see men's life-blood eking away 
In toilsome places, where at times before 

Their burdened cares seemed lighter than to-day. 
Alas ! the fated time for them has come. 
When an existence is the meager sum 
Allowed as recompense for men that serve. 
Who must daily work or beg, steal or starve. 

Lastly, I 've wondered as I saw white slaves 
In chains of labor digging their own graves. 
So to speak; hopeless machines. Starvation 
Stalks at the door of their generation. 
Men, let 's live! This is a world of plenty. 
Ye rich men, give! and the coming twenty 
Centuries of years will applaud the deed; 
Justice and sympathy bid you good speed. 



113 



POETRY. 

Poetry, for the most part, is the song of sorrow, the 
dirge of misfortune, the pathos of failure. The anticipa- 
tion of a lost ideal, the vanished opportunity, and the 
phantom of success ever lure the poet 'midst day-dreams 
of fancied realities. 



115 



ROSES OR TEARS. 

If there be any roses to give, or tears to shed. 
Let us have them while living, not after we are dead. 



117 



OBSERVATION. 

Crippled and maimed, a genius stcx)d 

Beside the rugged road of life; 
Looking on in wondering mood. 

While talents clashed in daily strife. 
Still onward came the massive throng. 

Halting never for friend or foe; 
While in their midst and all along 

Was seen distress and grief and woe. 

"Ah!" sighed the genius, "who is he 
That is not a cripple of some kind ? 

I've wondered what that soul could be 
Who is neither halt, lame, nor blind." 

Looking adown life's rugged steep, 
With vision clear and mind informed. 

He could not see, awake, asleep — 

One mortal being not deformed. 
* * * 

Appearance, at times, may seem perfection — 

With all our faults, why should we be unkind ? 
Within the outer man is the resurrection 

Of his deformed self and crippled mind. 
It matters little, as years onward go. 

Whether we are crippled or otherwise — 
Justice to men demands of us to know 

How to help each other and to sympathize. 



119 



Sl*"^ O"" CONGRESS 

■iifiillilM 

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